curled on blue stained comforter
your head on my thighs – I run short fingers
through white-gold
silent, speak of men
we have known
love, we have imagined
digital glow reminds me
you must drive skidding soon through rain –
turn my body to shield your eyes
if only I didn’t know what you’d do
if I kissed you
perhaps I’d kiss you
and see what you’d do.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
March 14, 1994